


Something Better Than Before

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Footage Not Found [7]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, F/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A Masterpiece Made in the Rain" from Beth's perspective. Two weeks of life in the funeral home and all she wants to do is teach Daryl about the damn piano, except that's not really what she wants, and they're both making it way too complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Better Than Before

**Author's Note:**

> By request, Beth's POV of the events of [this thing.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3397640)
> 
> Title from The National’s ["Start a War"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1UwnMJ-5KE), which you have no idea what I’d give to hear EK cover.

It’s always been easy to touch him.  


Which is strange, because it really shouldn’t be. Once she hadn’t understood that part of it – once she had just done it because it’s what she does, like how she had hugged him when he came to tell her about Zach; he was upset then, and even if he was doing a surprisingly good job of keeping it to himself, he wasn’t doing _that_ good a job, and she could tell.

She can always tell with him.

So she hugged him, felt him stiffen, but he didn’t pull away, and then there was that moment – so brief – when he touched her back, just a hand cupping her elbow, and even if he didn’t exactly relax she could tell it was something.

Like he wasn’t like that with too many other people.

She hadn’t known what to make of it then, so she put it away and didn’t think much about it.  


Until a whole lot later. A whole different life, kind of.

Because that’s what this feels like. They walked into this place, through that door, and it was like there was another – unseen – door through which they passed. Through something old and messed up and into something new, and if this is still a little messed up it’s a lot less so than what they had before.  


_We can live here for the rest of our lives._

She doesn’t really believe that. But maybe it’ll be a while. That would be good.  


So it was always easy to touch him, and it’s easy now – taking his hand, back of it broad, fingers rough and calloused, all very strong. Since the shack and what he did to her there – for which she forgave him such a long time ago – that strength has only been potential, latent, but she likes it. She likes that it’s there. She likes it now, and if he’s stiffening yet again as she places his fingers on the keys she finds that she doesn’t much care.  


He can get over it. She believes in him.  


“Here. Put your fingers here.”

Even though she’s already showing him.

He’s not comfortable with her touching him like this – though she hasn’t missed how he seems more and more comfortable when it’s _him_ touching _her_ – but she can also tell that he’s uncomfortable with the piano itself, and that’s interesting, and she thinks she also sort of gets it. There are places into which he seems reluctant to go. Very unsure. Like he thinks he doesn’t belong there.  


She would, if she thought he would take it at all well, gently tell him that this as well is total bullshit.  


He can go anywhere.

He does. He does what she shows him, and she glances up at his face, sees the tightness of his mouth and jaw, but when he glances at her she also sees that he wants to try. He actually wants to make the effort, no matter how weird it feels. No matter his discomfort.

For her. Because she’s asking him to.

And when she realizes that, warmth floods through her.  


She’s smiling as she presses his hand down, and again, again, showing him the rhythm. His brow is slightly furrowed in concentration, and she suddenly realizes that she loves when he looks like this, because the years melt off him and he looks like a big kid trying to learn something. Trying to work out a puzzle. It’s endearing.  


It’s… Well, it might be a lot of things.

She removes her hand and he maintains the rhythm, and she smiles a little wider as her own hands start to move.  


She doesn’t think much about it. She just plays, lets his own rhythm and his own notes guide her into a gentle harmony. She’s just playing what she feels, here with the candlelight all around them, which is happy – enough – but also she can’t completely forget what she’s lost. What _they’ve_ lost. If she’s happy – maybe always from now on – that’s going to linger with her. She doesn’t want it not to. Maybe other people run from pain, but she said once that hurt is part of the package, and she doesn’t believe that’s accidental. _He’s_ hurt her, even though she knows he hated it when he did and he hated himself for it after, but she wouldn’t trade any of it.  


She wouldn’t trade any of that time with him. Even the bad. Even the hurt.

So she puts that into the music. And this is an exposed moment, a _naked_ moment, because although she’s worked up the courage to play little bits of things of her own composition – for him, just for him, the only person for whom she’s done that – this is the first work quite literally in progress.  


Played for him. With him. She isn’t afraid of that.  


She isn’t afraid when she’s with him. Of anything.  


She knows he’s watching her. Her hands, her face. She flushes a little but she lets him watch. This is something they edged up to in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, and since then they haven’t gone near it again, but sometimes it gets close, and it’s close now. There are all kinds of things she hasn’t told herself. All kinds of things she’s left on the ground, hasn’t gone near. But more and more often these days she thinks _We could live here for the rest of our lives_ and even if she doesn’t really believe that, she can’t stop thinking about what that might mean.  


How they could play songs together. A lot more of them.

So she flows herself into that, into the melody, and it’s a little chaotic and there are a few missteps, but she’s actually very pleased with it. And when she lets it slow and fade and die away, when he stops with her with surprising smoothness, she sits for a moment and looks at her own hands, feels him big and solid and warm next to her, his thigh just touching hers, and she thinks about touching him again, more, taking his hand and…  


What?

What would she do with his hand?

Where would she put it?

She takes a breath. “That was nice.”

And he nods, but he doesn’t say anything. She looks at him and she can’t read his face, not because there’s nothing there but because there’s far too much to even begin to sort out.  


She doesn’t want to just let this sit. Not again.

“We can do that more,” she says, and she knows they can. She wants to. Watching his face as they build that together. She wouldn’t worry that he wouldn’t like it. “I can teach you. If you want. ‘s not that hard.”

He shrugs. Which she expected. She could back off now, leave him be, because she can tell at least part of him wants that. The tension in him – bloomed when she touched him – hasn’t left him, has only wound tighter, and she wishes she could figure out what to say and what to do to loosen everything again.  


“We got time now.”

He’s looking at her. And it’s like the kitchen, just like that, like he’s saying a hundred different things in his head but none of them are making it past his lips, and it’s making him a little desperate. She feels herself flushing again under that gaze, and now it’s _her_ turn to be uncomfortable.  


Him looking at her like that. Trying to tell her something. Needing to. She hadn’t known how to help him. _  
_

_Oh._  


She laughs softly. Maybe she thought it might ease everything, but it doesn’t. “Daryl, quit lookin’ at me like that.”

So he blinks. He looks away. He doesn’t look surprised, but she knows immediately that she’s said the wrong thing – always assuming there was even a _right_ thing, which she frankly doubts – and she wants to reach out and touch his jaw, turn his face back to hers. She didn’t mean…  


She _wants_ him to look at her.  


She wants that a lot these days.  


But there’s nothing else for her to do here, and the music has faded out of the air. Whatever they had here, just for a moment, it’s over. She gets up and gives herself a little internal shake.  


“Okay.”

But she stops, still less than a foot away, and turns back, and he’s looking at her again.  


And he’s feeling everything she’s feeling.  


This is so stupid. This is so goddamn stupid. They’re making this so complicated, and really it’s so simple, and it doesn’t matter that he’s a lot older than her and it doesn’t matter that everyone they knew and loved is gone and – yes, he was right about this – they’ll probably never see any of them again. None of that matters, because they’re here together, and if they can stay here for the rest of their lives, if they do have time now…

If they have that.  


“It’s alright, Daryl.” And she’s looking for other words but there aren’t any. Something he does, she’s noticed, is substitute actions for saying things, because saying things is clearly hard for him but doing things is easier. He does all kinds of things for her. He’s always looking for more of them to do.

Since a long time. Since always.  


This is a language he understands.  


She slides a hand into his hair – which she’s never done. It’s surprisingly soft. Smooth. She combs her fingers through it, and then, before she can talk herself out of it, she leans down and kisses him.  


It’s… Well, it’s sort of nothing. Like the hug. Like when they stood in the cemetery and she threaded her fingers through his. It’s a little piece of nothing. He could probably just ignore it if he wanted to.  


But he won’t.

And it’s not nothing. None of those things were nothing.

All of this might add up to everything.  


She straightens up, withdraws her hand, and she doesn’t really focus on his face at all. She’s not sure she can. Not sure she’s brave enough.  


But she _is_ brave.

He makes her feel brave.

“I’m gonna get some dinner ready.”

She goes.

Like this is a normal thing. Like it’s a normal life. She has her own room, her own bed – someone else’s bed, someone who’s probably dead now, but that’s okay, that’s something she’s gotten used to. They’re alive, him and her, and they keep laying foundations. Foundation after foundation, a hundred cornerstones.  


It’s easy to touch him. It’s getting easier all the time.

So maybe someday they’ll get around to building the rest of this. Whatever it is.

Maybe someday soon.  



End file.
